Scene: In a shoe store at the mall, looking for shoes for BlogHer. (Yes, really. Shut up.)
Her: [Holding up a pair of shoes.] You like these?
Me: Nah. I need something brown, mom. The dress has navy in it.
Her: Ah, okay. [Rifling through the sales rack and pulling out a pair by the straps.] What about these?
Me: [Eyeballing them without enthusiasm.] Eh.
Her: Why not? They're sassparillas! They're perfect for summer...
Me: [Don't laugh. Don't laugh. OMG Don't laugh.] Mom. Sarsaparilla? Sarsaparilla is like...a soda.
Her: No... [Defiant smirk.]
Me: Espadrilles, mom. [Uncontainable laughter.] They're called espadrilles.
Her: Oh, just shush it.
(Later, as I'm writing this documentary, I call to my husband to help stir up my memory embers. "Didn't I recently call something by the wrong name?" He looks at me with comic pity. "No, really. Don't I do that sometimes?" He sighs, "Yes, wife, you're doing it right now. You don't do it sometimes. You do it aaaallll the time." I scowl defiantly, "Oh, just SHUSH IT.")
Scene: Driving home from the mall, my mother looking out the window at the Texas...um, scenery, I guess.
Me: [Mumbling indecipherably about traffic.]
Her: [Reading a billboard, talking to herself.] "Carpal...Tunnel..."
Me: [Sideways glance.]
Her: [Still reading.] "No stitches"? [Disbelieving.] Huh.
Me: Mom? Why is this...?
Her: [Still talking to herself.] Psht. It'll still hurt like hell...
Me: I don't...even...
(When my husband drives, I often find myself reading random road signs aloud. With dramatic flair and irony, of course. But still. It's a compulsion. I try to suppress it.)
Scene: STILL IN THE MOTHERFUCKING CAR BECAUSE OMFG THE FORT WORTH TRAFFIC.
Me: [Reacting to hostile, maniacal, definitely-worse-than-New-York-drivers-driver cutting me off.] Jesus!
Her: [Sucking her teeth at the other driver.] You'd think if he cut you off, he'd step on it a bit.
Her: He needs to come up to New York and learn how to drive!
Me: Mom, stop.
Her: He thinks just because he's driving a...[squinting] Hyundai, that...
Me: Mom. That's a Honda.
Her: Yeah, well, whatever.
Me: We need to work on your insults, mom.
(My repertoire of insults includes...well...[sigh]...bastard...buttface...and...jerky. And when I'm feeling especially clever, I call people simple nouns, but with a really harsh tone, like, "You....DRIVER!" I suppose no more needs to be said about that.)
Anyway, I'm not so sure how I feel about these self-realizations. I'm thinking we'll need to limit visits from my mother in the future.